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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739057">on heavier ground</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dongyoung/pseuds/dongyoung'>dongyoung</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Love Poems, M/M, Non-Chronological, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:09:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dongyoung/pseuds/dongyoung</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>In Greek the act of love is a mingling (<em>mignumi</em>) and desire melts the limbs (<em>lusimelës</em>, cf. Sappho fr. 130 above). Boundaries of body, categories of thought, are confounded.</p>
</blockquote>Eros the Bittersweet, Anne Carson, 1986.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Lee/Qian Kun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Challenge #3 — soulmates</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>on heavier ground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last cantaloupe slice glistens under the tube light of the living room. Minhyung blinks at it, then looks back at his screen. He’s reading through Lisa Mueller, and right now he’s in the middle of Imaginary Paintings. He should really turn the light off. The sun’s out, what’s the point of upping the electricity bill?</p><p> </p><p>3 HOW I WOULD PAINT LOVE</p><p>White on white or black on black.<br/>No ground, no figure. An immense canvas,<br/>which I will never finish.</p><p> </p><p>4 HOW I WOULD PAINT LOVE</p><p>I would not paint love.</p><p> </p><p>Minhyung reaches blindly forward, grasps the fork, spears the slice, and gets it to his mouth before the juice can drip anywhere. He chews. Looks at the poem again. Blinks.</p><p> </p><p>3 HOW I WOULD PAINT DEATH</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” he says, mouth full. He’d misread. 3 had been <em> How I Would Paint Death</em>. It hadn’t been about love, twice over.</p><p>He gets up, turns off the light. The sun’s not too abrasive through the curtains. It’s dim, but it’s pleasant. From the bedroom, he can hear quiet singing.</p><p>It’s good. It feels good. His mind’s flying away a little, but. Regardless. He feels like love, twice over.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The timer had been expensive to get, but the actual match may as well have cost him an arm and a leg <em> and </em>a kidney.</p><p>“You can wait,” the person behind the desk says, words muffled by the mask. Their eyes sweep up from the papers, to Minhyung’s rumpled collar, the nametag (<em>Mark Lee </em> - not the birthname on the records) from work still clipped on to the breast pocket, and no doubt also the bags under his eyes. “Y’know that? You’re pretty young. You can save up. Have some fun. Everything’s still ongoing.”</p><p>Yes. That’s the plan. Birds of a feather flock together, right? Everything’s still changing. But whoever wants to go for it now is <em> going for it </em>now. There’s a chance. It’s a stupid decision, maybe, but there’s also a really, really good chance. Or it could also just be the crazy fucking optimism speaking. Minhyung doesn’t say anything, just patiently stands in line. It’s his turn. He paid. He’s only wanting for the stamp.</p><p>“Listen… Mark,” the person tries to keep going, but they probably see something in his face that makes them give up. “Good luck, huh?” A click, then a dark blue inked circle on the bottom left of the page. “Sign here.” Minhyung leans over, takes the pen and writes on the dotted line. The sheet’s pulled back, and Minhyung stands there, pen in hand. Awaiting instructions, maybe. Salutations? He doesn’t know.</p><p>“Stay happy.” It’s said like a greeting, with a nod. Minhyung can’t tell if they have a small smile or not, because it doesn’t reach their eyes. He nods back, almost tripping on his shoelaces, and leaves.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a thing that happens, sometimes,” Minhyung is telling him, when they’re in bed. “Before it used to be because college, right. Allnighters and everything. But now, even when I sleep well…” he trails off.</p><p>Kun’s fingers drowse in circles over his back, and it’s so comfortable. The curtain’s pulled back and the window’s open. It’s autumn, but only the beginning of, so it’s not too chilly. Soft blankets over the both of them, and he can hear Kun’s heartbeat, too. Right up by his ear. And then he can hear Kun’s laughter, as well, small and trying to be quiet.</p><p>He lifts his head, smiling. “What?”</p><p>“Your eyelashes,” Kun laughs, again. “Tickly.”</p><p>“Pretty,” Minhyung argues, pretty brainless at this point. “You like them.”</p><p>Kun’s smile gets as soft as all the blankets, and he tugs Minhyung closer. “Yes, Minhyung.” Tugs him even closer, jostling, and Minhyung answers with a laugh of his own. Kun nuzzles his forehead, the tip of his nose is very round and cold, as always. “Yes, Markie.” A small kiss. “You’re pretty.” A poke to Minhyung’s side. “I like your pretty eyelashes.”</p><p>It’s a little embarrassing, even though he loves hearing it, even though he basically asked for it. </p><p>Kun laughs, again. “Alright then, you small bird. Tell me, what were you saying about sleeping well and something happening?”</p><p>Minhyung wants to sleep, really. That’s what he wants. It’s a perfect night, and he wants to sleep. His eyelids are so heavy. “Mm,” he says. “Tell you in the morning?”</p><p>“Sure, Markie.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It’s been finicky, these first years of timers. People have gone for sight, for sound, for words on skin, and those are all probably way better choices, honestly. The timers still need more, well, time. More money, research. It’s going to be a while before science can get all the way to fate. Quantum physics barely scratches the surface.</p><p>All of which to say, all of Minhyung’s friends who went with timers have gotten their timers set back hours - years, even.</p><p><br/>Case in point: Sicheng on the bus, waiting, so sure, the timer ticking down to 000:00:000, and he’d gotten fuck all. Nobody had boarded the bus by the last fifteen seconds, and when the bus finally rolled to a stop, Sicheng’s timer had rolled up to 1,203:21:312. “At least,” Yangyang had tried, next to him, feeling no doubt desperate, awkward and really, really bad. “At least it’s not, like, fifty thousand hours left. It’s like. Fifty days.”</p><p>“Been waiting three years,” Sicheng had said, before walking off the bus, and to this day nobody has figured out whether he meant three years as in, <em> three fucking years</em>, or as in, <em> three years, what’s fifty days? </em> But that’s how it was with Sicheng, and often still is.<br/><br/></p><p>Anyway, it hadn’t been like that for Minhyung. Not exactly.</p><p>He’d been on his way to the corner store that Google Maps was telling him was at the end of the street, and he wasn’t even looking at his timer. He was trying to take a picture, on the way to the corner store, of the trees. So his phone was angled up and his inner wrist was pretty well positioned in his vision, but still blurry because he was focusing more on the screen and trying to get a lens flare from the sunlight. It was the sudden movement of numbers that caught his attention, tick-tick-tick-tick-flick down, down, the 9s becoming 1s in seconds, then 0s, and then, heart rate picking and footsteps slowing, almost all 0s. He was sweating, almost dropping his phone. Fuck. Was he ready? Was he ready? Was he -</p><p>“Hello,” someone called, from a park bench to the side. 00:00.</p><p>Minhyung swallowed, lowering his hand. His phone slipped a few millimeters between his clammy fingers.</p><p>The person got up, squinting at him, their satchel looking heavy and their hair tousled. It was a very good impression. Visually, it was a really good impression. Minhyung wanted to pass out. There was a sweater on, and everything. The whole… deal. Eyebrow mole. Slacks. <em> Glasses</em>.</p><p>“I hope it’s you,” they smiled. (The way they said it, Minhyung almost wished he’d gone for words on skin, instead. To have been able to know this beforehand, to have thought about it.)  “I’ve had you for two years now, and it’s been.” Gentle voice, but a little scratchy, with something like long-term exhaustion. “It’s really been a thing. The timer would tell me I have two minutes left, and then it would fuck up and set me back a century.” The sun was shining down pretty hard, and their hair was so <em> shiny </em> like this. Looked really <em> soft</em>. “You know they can set back a century? Gives up on hours and just straight up says one hundred, zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-zero. So that’s years, hours, minutes, seconds.” They were almost the same height as Minhyung. Barely taller.</p><p>“Sheesh,” Minhyung said. “I’m… This went totally the opposite for me. I had like. So long to meet you. And suddenly, it’s just, it’s really. It’s really now.”</p><p>The person laughed. “Yes. It’s really now,” they said, at the same time Minhyung said, “Wait, hey, call me Mark.”</p><p>Then, simultaneously, “Sorry?” and “Sorry, no, you.”</p><p>They both stood there, middle of the pavement, a tad out of place, a little out of breath.</p><p>“Are you busy?” the person asked, finally. “I can walk you where you’re going.”</p><p>“No!” Minhyung said. “I mean, yes, you can walk me. I’d like that. And, also, no, I’m not busy. Not at all. Really.” He’s almost stuttering. Great. Some stamina. Some impression. They’re going to think he doesn’t even know how to <em> breathe</em>. Which, highly plausible. Does he even? “I was. Getting ice cream. I mean, yeah, it’s November, and everything. But it’s pretty hot for November, isn’t it?” He pocketed his phone before it could gracefully slide and crash on asphalt from all the sweat lining his palms. Was he making an absolute fool of himself? Was it really November? Maybe it was January. Who the fuck goes for ice cream in January? Maybe the sun’s not out, maybe Minhyung has been in a coma this entire time and this was all a convoluted dream. Not hard to believe, given the way he had now apparently <em> met </em> -- and they’re <em> beautiful </em>-- and --</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>When you ask your lover what he is thinking,</p>
  <p>aren’t you really asking</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> Do I occur to you? do I take place? </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Sometimes to walk toward anyone</p>
  <p>is the wilderness.</p>
</blockquote><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It’s a Christina Davis piece. He’s read it through so many times for so many years, he doesn’t even remember which poem it’s from. He doesn’t know if it’s the whole poem, or a part of it. It doesn’t matter, either, how many times he’s written it down; in his own handwriting, on different sticky notes, come the different seasons making him write one more, just one more, before he’s done with it. It doesn’t matter, because Minhyung is never done with it.</p><p>Minhyung misreads it the first time his eyes fall on it, every time.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Summer, and they’re having lunch. Well, Minhyung’s still having it. Kun already finished and he’s washing up his plate.</p><p>“A lot of times, lately, I just read something similar, but it isn’t really there. And it’s not, like, dyslexia or something. I mean, I read up on it, and that’s kind of jumbling what’s already on the page. So the letters jump, or, numbers change.” He’s playing with his rice, which is not the best, but he figures nobody would really hold it against him right now. He’s a little worried. Minhyung can afford being a little worried, right? “Like, with numbers, let’s say, I have one-eight-seven on a page. And I’ll read, like, one-seven-eight instead. But I won’t read two-four-three, right. Because that’s another number completely. It’s not on the page.”</p><p>Kun comes from the sink, hands a little damp still despite drying them, and he sits on the chair next to Minhyung’s. Arm on the table, Kun leans on his elbow and really looks at him.</p><p>“So. That’s dyslexia, right? What I’ve read. But, I mean. I just swap words from a dictionary that look kind of the same, sometimes.” More rice-playing. Minhyung stabs at the plate with his chopsticks, and both of them jump a little at the sharp sound of it. Minhyung sniffs an <em> I’m sorry</em>. Kun nods, <em> go ahead</em>. So Minhyung does. Feels stupid to, but hey. He started it, anyway. “Sometimes they don’t, though. I read <em> love </em> instead of <em> death</em>. There’s this one poem - I always read the last word different. It reads <em> wilderness </em> but I always look at it and my heart feels like it falls every single time, because I read something else.”</p><p>Kun waits, but Minhyung just finishes his rice and goes to wash his plate. Kun decides to rewash all the spoons so they can stand next to each other while Minhyung takes extra long to wash his plate.</p><p>“I got some more work to do,” Kun tells him. “It’ll take a couple hours. Wanna hang out?”</p><p>Hanging out is really just one or both of them working quietly next to each other, taking turns with the playlists if they’re in the mood for music, and taking turns with the fruit peeling, regardless of mood.</p><p>Minhyung says yes.</p><p>Today it’s apples and tangerines.</p><p>Kun takes up the tangerines, thumbs digging in until the juice bursts. “Since you’ve got a kink with me and oranges, or something.”</p><p>Minhyung doesn’t even care. “God made you as a human and put you on this earth along with citrus perfumes on <em> purpose</em>.” He abandons his own apples and peeler just to face Kun fully and point at him. “I don’t totally know the purpose, but I like it.” He nods, slow and serious as Kun snorts, some of the juice dripping to his wristbone. “It’s sexy. And good.” Mark leans forward to lick the juice. “See?”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, after they’ve already met, Minhyung has a dream. It repeats itself often, and Minhyung basks in the familiarity of it, even though in the dream storyline, it’s always the first time this happens.</p><p>Maybe that’s what makes Minhyung happy. It’s new, and it isn’t. He almost doesn’t knows what comes next, so it’s exciting, but he almost does, so he’s secure.</p><p>He is on a train, and he’s walking past the third carriage and now he is turning to the left, and he is entering a compartment. The person looks up, glasses thin-wired and hair in ringlets, eyes wide with interest. Minhyung loves the feeling; this serious, unswerving attention. The gentle-handedness of it. The embrace it feels like.</p><p>“Hello,” the person says, and Minhyung has a second and a half between hearing it and them saying their next words, where he can smile back with novelty before recalling, right before the person says - “My name’s Kun. Sorry about the hold up yesterday. Have you been waiting long?”</p><p>Minhyung doesn’t remember yesterday, doesn’t know if he’s been waiting long. Minhyung is never done meeting him for the first time, for a dream-th time. Minhyung says, “I don’t think so. It doesn’t really matter. And, hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. How’s your day been?”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a psychologist,” Kun flounders. “I’m not going to get a real classification of what it is.”</p><p>“I know,” Minhyung says, lifting his hands to the ceiling. They’re lying on the living room floor, and the fan’s on slow. “But let’s pretend. Get a little fake deep on me. You’re cool when you hypothesize.”</p><p>He’s half-joking, but Kun still takes it seriously. It's something Minhyung really appreciates. It's something about <em> everything </em>about him really, that makes Minhyung wish he could just hold him so close. So, so close. Just next to his heart. A carotid artery. Maybe right inside an atrium of his bloody, beating, scared heart. Minhyung feels small, sometimes, around Kun. Like, here is the big beautiful wonderful world, and Minhyung wishes so bad he could shoulder it. And he feels like he can't, like instead of using his shoulders he just has his hands, and all he can hold is water, and the water's slipping fast.</p><p>"Stop with the thinking," Kun says, quietly, and Minhyung almost blanks, because Kun is usually a huge supporter of thinking. He is Team Pro-Think. He regularly accuses people of not thinking enough. This is a huge turnabout in attitude from Kun.</p><p>"What?" Minhyung says, maybe gaping a bit. Kun smiles. He puts his hand over Minhyung's chest, right under where his heart is. Lets it rest over it, warm and heavy, and Minhyung's spine wants to bend, wants to turn and fold so Minhyung can just bury his face in Kun's body and try to breathe.</p><p>"Hey," Kun says. "I'm right here. Markie, Minhyungie. I'm here."</p><p>Minhyung takes Kun’s other hand, so their timers press at the wrists and meet. 00:00 against 00:00.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Maybe, Kun tells him, later. It could be something like selective sight, something he'd read about in middle school, seen a documentary that talked about it a little. They're lying in bed, in just their shorts, Minhyung's ear jammed against Kun's heartbeat like a plea for something Minhyung does not want to think about.</p><p>"Selective sight," Minhyung repeats, instead.</p><p>"It's a bit like. Seeing things you're thinking a lot about. So if you read love instead of death, that's kind of cool, isn't it? You're thinking about love so much you see it."</p><p>Minhyung smiles. "Well. I was thinking of you."</p><p>Kun smiles back. Minhyung isn't looking at him, but he knows. It's a full body smile. Minhyung can feel it in the solid, steady muscles beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sometimes to walk toward anyone</p>
  <p>is the wilderness.</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>For Minhyung, every time he reads, it’s <em> loneliness</em>. To walk toward anyone is loneliness. It’s loneliness, and the way it feels like he’s been cut through and --</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Kun's hands immediately go to Minhyung's sides, pulling him in. "You're coming here. To me," Kun says, lowly. "I won't let it be like that."</p><p>Minhyung closes his eyes, feels Kun all around. "Promise."</p><p>"Promise," Kun whispers. "And hey. Hurry up with your Mandarin lessons. There's some things I want to say that I'd just fail at in Hangul."</p><p>"Hey yourself, ge," Minhyung laughs. "I can say the same to you."</p><p>"But I started learning for you earlier."</p><p>In the muted, striped light of the moonlight through the window, Minhyung leans his forehead against Kun’s; he can see Kun’s eyes glinting the slightest bit. And if Minhyung lets his blood float free and sing in his veins, he can feel both their breaths melding into each other, hear both their heartbeats in tandem, like one, big, quiet thing.</p><p>"But I've been wanting you," Minhyung exhales, and it feels ridiculous, and so much, and it's everything. He feels like maybe he has more than his hands, right now. Maybe more than even his shoulders. Maybe Minhyung is capable, right now. All this love and its pouring between them. "For so much longer."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://wordsfortheyear.com/2014/09/25/imaginary-paintings-by-lisel-mueller/">Imaginary Paintings / Lisel Mueller</a><br/><a href="https://mothwood.tumblr.com/post/129164752823/when-you-ask-your-lover-what-he-is-thinking">Border Patrol / Christina Davis</a> </p><p>sometimes my brain's tired and i see other words instead and i get a thrill even though it's not what the author meant. love twice over isn't bad. loneliness is definitely something. i hope you liked this, and that your day is going well. ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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